


But Just Ourselves

by waldorph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Future Fic, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-15
Updated: 2009-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean may be chosen by Heaven and craved by Hell, but Death understands him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Just Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Restricted Work] by [HeyDagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyDagger/pseuds/HeyDagger). Log in to view. 



She tilts her head, watching.

He is the one who got away. To him this means she is an ally of sorts: a confidant.

She is, but that is only because Dean Winchester is only truly comfortable in Death.

Human life awes him, those who disrespect its sanctity meet their long-overdue ends.

He is an ally of sorts. A comrade, a bit of empathy in such a frail shell.

He intrigues them- Heaven, Hell, those who dwell in neither. Dean Winchester, who is familiar to Death, chosen by Heaven, craved by Hell.

There has not been a mortal like Dean Winchester in this world since it began. She would have to strain even her memory to select his equivalent in any of the worlds since time began.

"You will destroy him," she says. "Sam Winchester and you are competing to see who will destroy him first- one for duty and one for love."

She looks at him.

"I am not sure which of you is for which emotion," she admits.

She has known this angel by many names- Cassiel, most lately, now Castiel to accommodate the new tongue of the world as he walks the earth.

"Sam Winchester is becoming a problem," he agrees.

She turns to him. HIs light is whiter than any soul she could take, golden-edged and sharp crystalline blue in others.

She wonders if to him she seems the wraith Dean first saw, or if he perceives the visage she has chosen.

Tessa has become her favorite personality- warm, embracing, nonthreatening. The personality that convinced Dean Winchester to accept death.

She wonders if perhaps this visage is like a battle scar to be worn with pride and asked after- in a strange way, Dean Winchester owns Tessa.

But that's all right. Because Death has held dominion over Dean Winchester his entire life, coaxing and watching, surrounding.

She is not the local reaper- though she could be, there is no predicting when Dean Winchester will finally die. But she is _his_ reaper, an indulgence she permits herself, which her brethren humor.

She is his final embrace, and he is hers. She thinks, watching the angel, that perhaps Dean has ownership of Castiel as well.

"You will protect him," she murmurs.

"I will try," he agrees wryly- and they share a brief smile in shared knowledge that Dean throws himself off of cliffs without a thought; and that when he does it will be one or both of them there to catch him.

* * *

"It's a _rattlesnake_ bite!" Sam is snapping. "Dean, we have to get to the hospital- "

"With what truck?" Dean demands. "The one the demon ran off with? Oh, brilliant plan, Sammy."

Sam glares at Dean. He cannot use his powers here, and Tessa sits down on a rock, looking about this desert, Dean flat on his back, serene despite the bite and his brother's concern.

"Hey," he says to her.

She smiles. "This is not your time to die, Dean Winchester."

"Aw, you missed me," he laughs.

Sam cannot hear her. He looks at Dean as though he is mad.

"I have matters in hand," Castiel tells her.

"I know," she replies. She watches as he takes Dean's leg in his hands, the golden sliding and surrounding.

It is not the kind of thing which Uriel would approve. She says as much.

"He is _my_ charge," the angel replies, with a possessiveness that speaks of many arguments on this subject.

His fingers linger too long on the inside of Dean's thigh, and his wings draw around Dean, shielding him from Sam.

She is not sure he is aware of what he does, but then he looks at her, and yes.

He knows.

* * *

The conflicts (such as they are) of Heaven are not her concern. But she slides out of Earth's pull and sits to watch as Castiel flexes the muscles of being first order.

_Dean is conflicted,_ he argues.

_Care is needed. _

_Making plans,_ he sighs,_ is pointless, because Dean Winchester never met a plan he couldn't throw into chaos._

There is a whisper, a hint that this might be a flaw.

_It is an asset_, the angel responds, voice hard and beautiful and terrible, so terrible. _He was not Chosen because he is mindless. He is Chosen for him_.

There are small things- hinting chimes like silver bells that Castiel is too close, that he would replace his will with God's, that he would make Dean the champion of the war in his own image, rather than in the divine.

"I met him," her companion informs her. Today her companion's name is Li Xin, and has a beautiful delicate face. "Tough kid."

"The toughest."

"Think it's true? Castiel's going to Fall for the sake of the eldest Winchester?"

Tessa had forgotten that she hated her fellow reapers for the gossips they can sometimes be.

"I think," she says quietly, "that Dean will not respond to anyone else, nor any other method, than that of Castiel.

This is how she finds herself in the war, allied with an angel for (if they were human) love of a boy.

* * *

She is in the area.

This means that she is in 2010, and can feel Dean Winchester's soul somewhere in her vicinity.

She folds another soul into her embrace- a two year old, fell down the slide and broke her neck; too young to fight her, willing to believe a soft smile and reassuring gaze.

She lifts her head, drifts and watches quietly.

Her love is platonic. Affectionate, possessive, almost maternal. She is Death- there is nothing sexual about Death, and while it may be sexualized. But the thing cannot be sexual- she has explained this frequently in this past century, which would make her concerned about the welfare of the generation if she cared at all.

Castiel's is not.

She does not know how long it has been since her last visit- tries to see things chronologically and sees that it has been six months. That the war is roiling under the surface of the Earth, that Hell is bucking and Heaven is pressing down.

She thinks it is possible that Dean was chosen to be the champion of the people, of this world, as much as he was meant to be the instrument of Heaven.

She watches as the angel bites at Dean's collarbone, as Dean's head falls back to allow it, to pleasure in it. As his legs fall apart, their clothes strewn over the motel room-

Sam is not there.

Sam has not been there for a month.

Castiel thrusts into Dean's body again and again, short strokes and languid rolls of his hips, taking Dean apart and putting him back together with a touch, a brush of lips. His back shines with sweat, both of their hair damp and a flush high on Dean's cheeks as he makes panting, whimpering sounds, words like, "Please" and "yes" and "_Cas_" thrown into the gibberish.

She watches as they both finish- Dean ahead of Castiel- and then stands guard (though it is not that, not officially) as both sleep, curled about each other.

This is the moment before the storm.

It will be a busy year for her.

* * *

She takes in innocent bystanders, possessed souls, demons, angels. Some rage against her, but this is an Apocalyptic War, and she and her brethren will leave none behind- it is their job to clear the playing field so more actors may appear to take their places, everything ebbing and flowing without giving leniency or favor to one side over the other.

Death must, above all else, be neutral.

She is not a good reaper, because she stands around Dean, watches him shout and argue about plans, frustrate Bobby Singer and wear thin the patience of all of Heaven's Host.

He will win this war on his terms- anything else is not a victory in his eyes.

And she smiles when she sees how desperately they need him- because they agree.

* * *

The war drags on for two years.

"I'm _tired_," he tells her.

He has been so surrounded by death, his soul so stroked by the love of Castiel, that he can see her now, no need to be dead or dying.

Perhaps his logic is less humorous than he'd thought: perhaps he truly is dying perpetually, and she is visible to him because the end is constantly nigh.

"I know," she replies.

"Sammy's tryin' to cross the fuckin' divide," he sighs, rubbing his face. "Wants to talk about a promise."

They both know which promise. The one made in the immediate aftermath of John Winchester's death. Dean had been patronizing and Sam had been drunk, but it was no less a promise, and Sam wasn't about to let Dean forget it (_"Please, Dean, you're the only one who can do it. You have to promise me." / "I promise."_).

The trick, she knows, is whether Sam means it, remembers what it was like to be human and so scared, or whether it is simply him playing his brother as only he can, luring him out of the camp where he is safe.

* * *

It is a trick.

Dean is armed with the Colt, his soul not quite human anymore, blessed as Messiah (and what a thought, that some day in 2,000 years people could still be praying to Dean Winchester as they pray to Jesus).

There are angels around him; Israfil, Castiel, Paschr, Colopatiron, Ezekiel, Uriel. She smiles fondly at her Dean- he is more beautiful than angels.

He is also pissed.

The forces of Hell scream out of hiding, oppressive smoke that she recognizes, and it is too close, too close as the angels become distracted.

And she loses her neutrality.

It is not Castiel who falls.

It is she.

She screams into battle, scythe in hand, and begins reaping.

She expects to be outcast, shunned.

She is followed.

Death has chosen its side in the apocalypse.

* * *

Hell is contained.

Dean Winchester survives, and the reapers withdraw.

"I thought I'd be goin' with you," he tells her.

He will stay on Earth for a while longer, until he becomes used to what he has become: what he may do.

Someday he may return to Earth: when Sam rises from Hell again, fighting the Seals. For the interim he will exist somewhere in the middle, hunting eternally with Castiel at his side.

Forever out of her grasp.

"I thought so too," she agrees, touching his face.

"Don't be a stranger," he instructs.

"Never," she agrees.

She folds him into her arms, and he holds onto her. She presses a kiss of benediction to his forehead.

She will not stay away. He may walk with angels, but he is hers. He belongs to Death.

Castiel presses a kiss to his lips, and they walk through the stars.

She checks in from time to time.


End file.
